


In Sickness

by moochymochi



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, F/M, Fatherhood, Hurt/Comfort, Lovers, M/M, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 21:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15518730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moochymochi/pseuds/moochymochi
Summary: Patrick attends Pete and Ashlee's wedding. Feelings are tough to keep in check, especially when the nuptials aren't about you.Canon timeline, May 2008.





	In Sickness

In the glossy light of the banquet hall, Pete looked good. His cheekbones were raised with a smile, his mouth a rosebud almost ripe for the picking. When he tapped his knuckles on the linen-draped table, it was to a rhythm that was impossible to place. A song that never made it past the back of a bar napkin. The tapping increased at the sound of a round of applause.

Patrick joined in, clapping flatly. He stopped well before those around him.

“Thank you, everyone, thank you! We’re all set, and we’ll see you bright and early tomorrow,” Mr. Simpson said, waving to dismiss the group. “Big day ahead of us.”

Patrick had sagged in his seat, predicting some speech from the proud father, and was startled by the movements of the other guests. They were free to go? The bodies of relatives and childhood friends suddenly clogged the pathway he had planned out to get to Pete. He stood in time to avoid a pushy older woman clamoring behind him, and backed away from the table. Soon, he was pressed to the edge of the room. He was going to wait. He busied himself with finding patterns in the venue’s floral wallpaper and in the cracks of the vaulted ceiling.

California, the Los Angeles area, specifically, was not within Patrick’s preferred tastes. The city was loud and lively in the worst ways, the traffic brutal and the people more pompous than he could stand to politely order a cold-pressed juice. He figured that’s why Pete planned on staying here. Aside from this whole Ashlee thing. The West Coast had consumed him to the core, any glimpses of that Wilmette kid limited to his peripherals. 

Suffocating, Pete nodded and ‘mmhm’d’ at whatever the people around him were saying. There were congratulations, stories of weddings he should have attended, questions about the honeymoon.. It was a rehearsal dinner, fuck, couldn’t all this fussing be saved for tomorrow? They had already whittled away the entire evening here, and he was supposed to be waking up in less than eight hours. He was grateful for Ashlee’s willingness to do most of the talking, though her laughter was a little too loud next to his ear. His hold on her waist was delicate, and he could feel the heat of her skin radiating beneath the skirt’s fabric.

An uncomfortable thought crept forward. It was shaken off only with the help of his sister, a squeeze given to his nearest wrist.

“Yeah, I, we’re excited,” Pete agreed with whoever the hell was in his face now. The swarm had thinned slightly, and he knew it was the most intrusive, persistent who were left. “Nervous? Nah, just when I think about how beautiful she’ll look compared to me.”

Patrick craned his neck in an attempt to catch Pete’s eye. The heels of his Oxfords added an inch or two to his height, certainly not enough to give him an advantage. He straightened his spine and bobbed his head during the few seconds where there were gaps in the crowd. It didn’t work. He stayed patient, an ornament in the background, until the situation had been narrowed to immediate family. He stepped in their direction, the distance somehow lengthening for each unheard call.

“Pete.”

“.. We’re not going to smash the cake, hah..”

“Pete.”

“.. She’s my better half, after all..”

“Pete.”

With the conversation interrupted, Patrick had to deal with several pairs of eyes on him. None appeared too thrilled. He fumbled for his next move, and was grateful to have Pete take an smidge of initiative. Even if it was forced.

“ ‘Scuse me,” Pete said charmingly. He disconnected from Ashlee and gave a shrug to everyone else. “Best man knows what’s best.”

A minute later, they were in the corridor that linked the banquet hall to the main reception room. It was empty, save for the decorative mirrors that made the space feel longer and wider. Their reflections were the sole witnesses to the change in demeanor, the muffled voices. Polished glass watched them embrace. It was their first physical contact in over three weeks, not counting whatever touches that came with the bullshit buddy-buddy routine.

“The hell?” Patrick huffed. 

“What?”

“What the hell, you asshole?”

Pete continued to dodge his inevitable scolding and trilled, “You look great. I’m captivated, one hundred percent.”

Patrick shoved him. It would have been more rough, but he was weary from playing nice since this engagement had been announced. He rubbed his temples and rested against the wall, putting a hand up in defense when he sensed an approach. He grumbled, “Don’t.”

“It’ll be fine,” Pete said.

“That’s a lie.”

“.. I have to do this.”

The bitterness of defeat flared on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, his verbal backlash stunned before it had a chance to escape. Nothing was going to be fine. Not the band, not the fans, and not them. That last one, the two stupid dudes wanting to be together, was his most selfish concern. Yet it dulled in comparison to how greedy it was to permanently rope in some girl that Pete had been dating - for what, a couple years? - that was going to be a distraction, a hinderance. The absurdity of it all loosened his tongue, and he blurted the question, “Why?”

Pete wasn’t ready to share the news. At this point, he didn’t even know if he was allowed to. He let out a breath, his expression unnerved, “It’s the right thing, the right thing to do.”

“You.. You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“Wish I was.”

“You _never_ do the right thing.”

Pete giggled a bit at how blunt Patrick was being. It was refreshing to ditch the formalities and fake smiles for the upcoming wedding. He leaned in, whispering, “I’m gonna start now. I have to. She’s pregnant, Patrick.”

“That’s what it is?” Patrick was floored, his hand moving to hide his blushing cheeks. “I don’t think that means you have to marry her.”

“I do.”

\---

Patrick didn’t hit his stride for crisis mode until the vows were over. It made his the pits and navel of his tuxedo damp with sweat, the black ensemble hiding the mess. He tried to tug at the collar for some relief, and managed to further choke himself. Everyone was stealing the air with their collective cooing at the scene. All he could do was focus on the invisible bulge buried in the belly of that gaudy wedding dress. Fuck.

He watched Pete and Ashlee lock lips beneath a rush of cameras. There was a bump to his left and he stumbled, forgetting to smile. The patterns of the carpet swirled in his vision, and he pretended to realign his glasses. 

When Patrick looked up again, the happy couple was headed down the aisle. Pete was hollering about who knows what while Ashlee gleefully waved her bouquet. The photographers followed them and disregarded anyone else. The bridal party snapshots had been done prior to the ceremony, so they were.. done? He didn’t know. He turned toward the other groomsmen, most of whom he wasn’t close friends with, and tried to get a word in about what they were supposed to do from here. They were laughing and patting each other’s backs and wandering off in different directions. He opened and closed his mouths several times before deciding it wasn’t worth it. 

He peered into the crowd for Andy and Joe. In the second row, they waved.

“Hey,” Patrick greeted, now standing beside them. “I’m staying with you guys. I think we’re at the same table.”

“What?” Joe raised a brow.

“Table.. three or something?”

“Oh, whoops. I spaced for a sec there.”

Joe was dressed cleanly, his tuxedo an obvious rental - there was no way he would own formal wear in that shade of maroonish black - and his hair slicked back into a knotted bun. Andy was in a similar state, his sleeves rolled to expose tattooed forearms with a pair of Vans replacing dress shoes. They both wore twiggy smiles under bloodshot stares. These past several weeks hadn’t been the band’s high point. Exhaustion and support were the name of the game.

There was a joke to be made about the ridiculous extravagance of the whole charade. Nobody went for it.

Andy shifted to face Patrick, asking, “Glad your best man duties are over?”

“Err,” Patrick muddled. He watched the guests mill about in anticipation for the opening of the reception room. “I still have to give my speech.”

“Did he force you to let him proofread it? Make sure there’s enough metaphors?” Joe teased, folding his arms and smirking.

“Ha ha.”

“I’m sure it’s great,” Andy offered after shushing Joe. He must have thought it was funny, though, as he had to clear his throat of a chuckle to continue, “He chose you for a reason.”

“I guess.”

“You could practice in front of us, if you want?”

“Ahh, no thanks. I’d rather bury myself alive.”

They idled for a good ten minutes more, their lulled conversation becoming white noise to anyone else’s ears and vice versa. Feet shuffled, fingers were drummed.

The wait was almost theatrical in a weird, shitty way. 

Patrick was silent when those double doors finally cracked. He was, for reasons he assumed were positive, made to lead Joe and Andy toward their table. Table three. He had double-checked at the seating chart near the front, it’s cupid silhouette dripping with lace. Names were written in a lavish cursive font that was difficult to read, and he was irritated by the tiny star that dotted the ‘i’ in his first name. He had a suspicion that shredding the name card with his bare hands would relax him. Too bad his sheepish rationale convinced him otherwise. 

There were several others seated with them, none of whom he felt the need to speak with. He didn’t care. He glared at the pristine cutlery on the tablecloth with a vacant expression. In his pocket, he ignored the buzz from incoming text messages on his cell phone. Even as Andy provided encouragement, he could only nod. Dinner was served by a bundle of waiters and waitresses; salmon and chicken and filet mignon paired with potatoes and buttered bread and greens. Savory scents filled the room, a nice contrast to the sugary cocktails that flowed from the open bar. 

In the center of it all, Pete and Ashlee were planted at the sweetheart table. Hemingway was nestled between them. Their grins stretched wide, glittery among the candles, unable to turn away from each other. It wasn’t that new of a phenomena, they had morphed into googly eyed lovers by the watchful paparazzi. 

Patrick took exactly zero bites of his meal. 

The reception wore on, the ambience like a fever dream. Black and red were the main colors for the decor, metallics hinted at the edges. The flowers and fabrics and chandleries bled upon the guests in a cry for attention. An ‘Alice in Wonderland’ theme had also been incorporated, strangely subtle, considering it was the bride’s idea, and the details meshed well with this rabbit hole of an event.

“I can’t ask for how much applause he deserves, but let’s give it a try. It’s time for the best man’s speech - Patrick Stump, everybody,” Pete was announcing to the room once the majority had finished their meals. He held out the microphone and then joined in the clapping after it was accepted. 

“Hey, thanks..”

Patrick said his piece. It was methodical, and, if he were to be asked to do it again, he would have frozen up. This was a singular effort. He rattled off what he was supposed to, pausing at the correct moments for his audience to react. He appeared delighted to be in the spotlight, elated by the opportunity to entertain with anecdotes and well wishes.

The microphone was given to the next speaker. He returned to his seat, shuddering against the audience’s approval.

\---

“I’m gonna take a leak,” Patrick mentioned quietly. 

“Those drinks finally hittin’?” Joe perked.

“Shut it.”

“Touchy.”

Full of amaretto sours and champagne, Patrick hauled into a standing position. He felt bloated. The walls seemed to melt and reshape, his first few blinks exaggerated and trying to focus. He was tipsy, he was fine. He was.

Table three was abandoned at that point. A party that hadn’t started was coming to an end. What a waste. The chairs were mostly empty, Joe to his left and an older man dozing across from them. Andy had wandered to the dance floor with a girl he had met during the cake cutting. They swayed together and chatted whenever the songs transitioned or had a particularly soft overture. 

Patrick turned back to Joe, pretending to fumble with his jacket’s hems, “Watch him for me, okay?”

“Who?” Joe puzzled. 

“Andy.”

“What? How come?”

No response. At least, not directly. Joe was surprised to watch Patrick make a beeline for the restrooms, murmuring. 

_“Probably a gold digger. They’re everywhere.”_

The restrooms were pristine and elaborate for no apparent reason. Wall-to-wall mosaics made everything sparkle, the inlaid sea glass catching the overhead lights. The marble countertops were spotless and matched with the folded hand towels, perfect squares of fluffy cotton. Around the corner, past the sinks, there were changing stalls fitted with bamboo shutters. Spare hangers rested on the hooks outside the changing stalls, unbothered and trimmed with ribbon.

He was alone. 

Patrick didn’t need to use the restroom. He came in here to get away, to pout at the mirror and to furiously wash his hands. He pumped out too much soap and blasted the faucet so hard it gushed out in a hiss. His knuckles were scrubbed raw, and he didn’t stop when the water came to a boiling point. Soon, the suds he had created disappeared down the drain. He repeatedly wrung his hands together, watching them, steam rising, his glasses loose on the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t see straight. He reached to shut off the faucet, its stainless steel piping hot.

“Shit,” he growled. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“.. Patrick?”

“What!”

Patrick fluttered, confused. The stinging in his palms subsided and he whipped around to see how badly his anger had him hallucinating. Nothing, nobody. He shook off the excess water and glanced around the corner. At the end of the row, a changing room door had been cracked open. He ventured, “Hello?”

“How’s it goin’?” Pete’s voice replied. His face poked beyond the door and gave a smile.

Patrick was shocked, though only for a moment, “How’s it goin’? What, what do you think? Wait, are you drunk?”

The flurry of questions caused Pete’s features to spoil, “I’m not drunk. Way to assume.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

“Just scared.”

Like a thousand times before, they were forced to pit the risk against their desires. They involuntarily sized the circumstances, hesitating, and chose to make a move. Pete widened the door’s opening and Patrick stepped forward. 

“Why are you scared?” Patrick bolted them in, his grip lingering on the lock. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

Pete scoffed, “Well, fuck, sorry. This is exactly why - I tell you about something and you immediately put on an attitude.”

“Pretty sure it’s fair for me to have an attitude--”

“Yeah?”

“Sitting through your shotgun wedding.”

Pete was already done with this nonsense. He was regretting making his presence known, and began to wonder how long it would be until his bride noticed his absence. Probably not long enough. He pushed away the stream of complaints to argue, instead, “Can I talk? For, like, a second?”

“No. I know what you’re going to say,” Patrick snipped.

“Doubt it.”

“You wanna whine about your mistakes. The, your mistakes with Ashlee and this kid. You’re scared that--”

“Christ, Patrick, that’s not it!”

“Fine, what’s the problem,” the younger man whispered, his volume kept low by standing an inch or two apart. “And don’t lie to me to make this about us.”

Pete smacked his own forehead in distress. An exasperated sigh was the extent of his response. For now, anyway. Gel was smeared at his hairline, his black bangs clumped at the tips. His boutonniere was wilted, crushed by the constant congratulatory hugs of tonight’s madness. He figured he had one more hug to do, the most important and the most apologetic in months.

“Stop it.” Patrick fell into those arms, wrapped in emotions that demanded him to submit. Bliss, turmoil, grief. “You’re not answering me, don’t do this to me!”

“You know why I’m scared,” Pete said. His breath was sticky on Patrick’s neck, the walls of his defense weak and unwanted.

“I feel like I don’t know anything about you anymore. Besides knowing you’re a full-time pain in the ass.”

With a vague admission of guilt, Pete went in for a kiss. The satisfaction that so quickly swelled told him that Patrick was still his most powerful comfort. The taste of home, _Chicago_ , fast food dinners followed by gas station coffee and secondhand equipment for their basement shows. The fountain of youth that they lost in a heartbeat. Selfishly, he indulged.

Patrick allowed it, instinctively gulping, his heels unsteady on the plush carpet below. He couldn’t move away if he wanted to, he was starved for physical affection. Worse, he was hungry for information. He had been out of the loop for too long, and this was the most opening up Pete had done since who knows when. His lips puckered at the thought, working to end the kiss. He was careful not to flare his temper, asking a second time, “Why are you scared?”

“I, of course Ashlee and this kid have got me scared. But they’re not mistakes, this isn’t their fault,” Pete said, wincing. “I have to deal with this.”

Patrick’s temper immediately surged. He shook his head and became sarcastic, “Uh huh, you sure are doing a great job handling these responsibilities. You know, hiding in a literal closet with me.”

“C’mon, that’s not fair.”

“What the hell do you want me to say, then? You’re trying to get cozy with me at your wedding for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s a compliment.”

As blue greens dimmed in disappointment, Pete realized that flattery would get him nowhere. Not here. And that was one of the reasons why he appreciated Patrick, why they had brought their relationship this far. Patrick was different. The kid was real with him, grounding them when going lower didn’t seem possible. Returning that sincerity was the bare minimum he could do. He went for another kiss, now on a frown, and said, “I’m terrified of losing you. You’re all I’ve got. The band’s not going to make it without us.”

“You..”

Patrick heard the squeaking of their suit jackets’ fabric, the polyester straining in their embrace. It was stiff and warm and borderline unnecessary. He wanted to fight, the urge crumbling at the pressure of Pete’s sobs. Waterworks, seriously? How was he supposed to float on a sea of self-pity? The muffled cries into his shoulder were heavier than any rational thought. He was sinking.

The band’s success hinged on their dynamic. More than the ‘best friend’ banter during interviews or the songwriting prowess, it was their intimacies that pushed and pulled Fall Out Boy to the right places. A complicated lust shared by a singer and bassist sourced the band’s sound, singles, and public image. They were their own secret inspiration for lyrics high on empathy and the soaring vocals that brought them to life. A crash waiting to happen when they met an unexpected turn.

“While you take care of her,” Patrick began, “and after you become a dad, the world won’t end. Us, our world, might shrink, but it’ll keep spinning.”

“It won’t,” Pete claimed. He had fistfuls of Patrick’s sleeves.

“I’ll be there, you fuckin’ idiot.”

“And how, how can you know that?”

“ ‘Cause I won’t be knocking up girls like you,” Patrick jabbed. He took a moment to look at Pete, a hand resting on his jawline where sprinkles of dark stubble hid. A lipstick smudge stained the edge of his pretty pout.

He couldn’t kiss him.

Pete was begging, “I didn’t mean for this to happen, never in a million years. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Patrick said, an adjustment made to Pete’s bowtie, “that’s why I’m not going away. Chasing you is kinda part of me now.”

“I hate being chased.”

“Yeah. Good thing I’m the exception.”

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say, I like one shots where they end up in cramped spaces.


End file.
